100 Tales of Fire and Gunpowder
by Twinkeypop21
Summary: Roy and Riza had been together longer than they had been apart, their history went so far back the line between childhood and adulthood seemed to merge. Royai. 100 themes. If you like this check out "The Seven Deadly Sins". Thanks :)
1. Introduction

The wind pulls at her blouse, almost as though hands have taken a hold of her and wills the woman to come into its grasp. **She shivers.**

_ She doesn't like it in the North, she never has. The winds were always too strong and the mass of water expanding over half of everything too vast. But then again she isn't here for herself, for the ocean, even for the blazing sun. She is here for him. She assumes that not much else matters besides him, or at least she's never let anything else matter. That's how she likes it._

She lets the wind pull her forward three steps before she tries to recover on sinking feet. The sand moves in, drowning her feet in their grains.

_ It would be unprofessional for her to consider the ebony haired man an attachment. She muses that it must also be unprofessional the way they speak to each other or the way he sometimes looks at her(and especially the way she looks at him). He is her commanding officer, she his right hand man- or in this case woman. And she smiles at the thought of him. All of him, and her mind is placed into melancholy and old memories that are like dreams now._


	2. Drunk

He is drunk, his hand still clasped around the bottle of whiskey or scotch or whatever the hell it is he drinks nowadays. He has always preferred hard liquor. Hard liquor for a hard man, he always says to her. But he isn't hard, in fact she knows quite well how sensitive this man could be. _He knows it just as well; he is complicated, not cruel._ She's crueler than she wishes to be. She gained the complex when she was in training, or maybe it was in the war.  
Putting aside the woman she is, she lets him stumble against the wall, catching him moments before he slides to the ground. It hurts her to see him this way, and kills her even more that he doesn't come to her before this state. But she can't be picky in the ways he chooses to communicate with her. The fact that he appears in front of her makes her head pound and her pulse quicken. It shakes her down to the core to see him this way, and she wishes he could be strong, wishes she can make him strong like he claims she does.  
He mutters some none sense about how he's sorry and how he wishes she would move on. **She shivers**. He kisses her. And she isn't sure what to do, but the smell of him is in her nose and she's sure he smells like ashes. And blood. And sand. And Ishval.  
_He tastes of Brady and that answers her question of what type of drink he's been drinking these days, but it doesn't matter anymore._ His hands are in her hair and somehow they move to her waist. She falls into him for a moment, letting her body be touched by his gloved hands. Letting her body get the best of what she knows is right. He's losing her now as she pushes away, her mouth sobering him.  
"Sorry, Lieutenant." He mutters, his fingers slightly caressing her wrist in apology. Then he retreats, falling upon her couch before letting the demons of sleep take him. The cold seeps into her and she hushes her heart, pushing back the tears threatening her eyes. She steps away, pulling out his extra uniform she had left in the closet.  
It had appeared after he had come in the night, clinging to the grit of her door, unable to be alone in his moment of weakness. It was her job to make him look presentable. It was her job to wash and press his blue uniform. This meant replacing the one being taken with one that looked just as prim and edged as the last. This was her distraction from him. From his form on the couch, and the eyes that follow her as she works, pulling his boots from his heavy feet and lining them neatly at the front door next to her own. His eyes loiter upon her, half lidded and his mouth pressed shut in a line of drunken disapproval of himself.  
His greatcoat comes off next. She forces his shoulder up and pushes him back, not as gentle as she wishes she would have, although she knows its not a situation to be gentle. He is broken. She knows this, but choses to ignore the fact until these nights. And she thinks maybe he does too. She drapes a blanket over his chest, feeling too tired to situate him on the couch.  
It's another sleepless night, her back against the wall and the crisp, clean sheet rough against her. She's hot, but when her cover escapes, she's cold. Her discomfort causes her to flee the bedroom, fully dressed in uniform before she laces her boots. She plans on an early start to the work day, maybe get his work done that he hasn't finished. Because he never finishes. He stirs when she opens the door, grumbling about being safe, he turns over, and she leaves.  
_She wonders what he thinks when he wakes and finds himself alone once again._


	3. Letting Go

Redemption comes as a breath of fresh air. Like folded letters being opened after years of waiting to send them. He wonders if she's opened them yet. He wonders if the years worth of late letters will be enough to save him. He knows it will, but whether it should he knows not. But he thinks it shouldn't. She is worth so much more than a pile of half-assed sheets of worn out paper. Her tears should not have been shed for a bastard such as himself. But he guesses there's not much he can do about her. Because as much as he wants to let her go he doesn't know how. Doesn't know how he can keep himself good without her.  
She is the definition of redemption for him. Her very presence keeps his head above the waters of temptation and evil. Or at least he'd like to think that she does. She is his strength. Then why, he has to ask himself, does he find himself in bed with another nameless woman, a half drunk bottle of whiskey settling in his stomach? It's simple, as much as he doesn't want to admit it; the once plush mattress he was once content to lie in is now uncomfortable, as though it has developed a mouth and is consuming him. He needs distractions.  
The woman he wakes next to smells of thick perfume and artificial flavors that push him to become nauseous. He picks up a strand of her raven hair, presses it to his cheek before letting it drop. The woman is all product, her hair course and damaged of overuse of the irons women use these days. He wonders if she would use curling irons, thrust so brutally into the fire before hair was wrapped so tightly around the orange metal. He thinks not. It is too harsh for her hands. And luckily her hair is short. He releases the woman, disgusted by his interest; it seems so wrong now that the act is done. Or maybe it's the fact that he's thinking if her, precious she, in a place as dirty as this.  
He peels himself away, before reattaching himself to his clothing and coat and boots and smirk. The woman stirs, and the rustle of the sheets makes him think of her, late at night when he lies on her couch and listens as she tosses. All he wants to do is turn and see her lying next to his place, her hay-blonde hair spikes against the pillow. All he wants is to somehow appear to her in the night to make her painful nightmares disappear.  
He hesitates. Closing his eyes, listening to the way the woman breathes and automatically he is reminded this isn't her. Her breath is too relaxed, to unaware of the world around them. He leaves without a goodbye, a note, not even a second glance.


	4. Tears

The clouds are dark in the sky when he comes, trailing her father. She watches him come from her place on the porch, waiting to take her father's coat and ask him about his day. She won't get a reply, but she'll try nonetheless. She pulls her wrap around her a little tighter, her not so adolescent body fully matured. She is lean where she used to be soft and her chest slight bumps under the lose fabric of her dress. Her face is thin and narrow. More like her father's than her mother.  
He is almost nineteen, his body not quite as lanky as his previous one, but he is still tall. Or at least he looks tall from his place on the walk. She feels his eyes on her, although he is too far for her to see his eyes, she knows their dark pupils are trained on anything and everything around him. She hesitates and hopes that he's looking at her, even if she is only sixteen. The thought is forced to flee from her as the disciplined parts of her take command. It is inappropriate for her to think that way of her father's pupil. But it doesn't stop her from coloring in her own embarrassment.  
She fingers her hair, a habit she's taken to since her hair has been cut short. She no longer feels beautiful or delicate like she used to, and she imagines this look suits her better anyways. Because she was never beautiful or delicate. At least her father never makes a point to tell her so. He likes her hair shorter and she's not sure if its because he's always wanted a boy or because this way she no longer looks like her mother. The door behind her rattles with the wind and the stairs creak with new weight.  
She meets his eyes halfway and she twists her skirt in her hands. His gaze is intense on her, traveling over every inch of her and she feels herself blush. She wishes he wouldn't look at her in the way he looks at her; he's surprised at first, but then his gaze relaxes, his eyes droop, and he looks over her with eyes that feel like strangers. She shivers. And she's not entirely sure if its because of the cold or because he's home. He's home. It hits her in the gut before it travels to her knees and she feels unstable on her feet. She sways.  
Her father hands her his coat with a grumble, a pause, and then departs. This is not unusual. But he keeps himself glued to his spot on the stairs, one foot on the ground and four steps to go before he's on the porch. The ten feet between them feel like miles and miles, and neither can force themselves to move. But suddenly her father' coat is thrust to the ground and the stairs scream with agony as they are taken too fast. He embraces her, pulling her away from the ground and without his arms around her she is sure she would have floated away. She holds him back and it's like they are each other's support, like they are each other's gravity, he keeps her down.  
She cries into his shoulder and he presses a cheek against her scalp. His hands snake around her shoulders, keeping her buried in his chest and she holds around his waist, afraid if she loosens her grip he'll somehow escape. He seeps into her, his warmth like sunshine and all the good things in the world. She is his, broken and unbroken and everything in between.  
"You didn't write," she hears herself whisper but isn't quite sure why she does. And he touches her face, pulling away the tears from her cheeks with his rough and calloused thumbs.  
"Why didn't you write?" She whispers again as he lays a kiss upon her forehead. Her eyes shut. They sink into each other once more, tears falling like stars come down from heaven. She would stay like this forever if she could, but her father calls her from inside the house and he lets her go, his hands lingering on her bare arms before he lets his fingers slide across her cold skin. She touches his chest one last time, because somehow she knows this is the last time she'll be able to touch him freely. Her hand drops and they look on each other, before she takes his coat without a word, and he makes his way into the house, damp with her tears.


	5. Parallel Universe

GAHHH! I am so in love with my new laptop that just came today! URMIGURD SO SHINY AND NEW... I don't happen to have the best luck with computers... just unlucky I guess? Luckily while I was waiting to get back to the states and get my laptop, I did write more. I'm really tempted to just submit them all today...but then I think I'll be behind again...so maybe I'll two more today and two tomorrow and so on until I'm out of already written chapters. Then its waiting time again - .

I'm awful at deadlines, therefore will not set a specific date in which I will update. Sorry.

WITH FURTHER ADO I GIVE TO YOU...ROYAI! (Hehe that rhymed).

The sun rises, hues of yellow and pink and blue mix in the middle to create a gentle blend of sky. He smiles, letting the approaching sun warm him and the wind tickles his skin. The air smells of lavender and lilies and he is automatically reminded of her. He does not falter; in fact he feels a certain energy course through him.  
The door is locked behind him and he pushes forward, certainty in his heavy steps. He is two meters down the street when she falls in step with him, a brisk walk that not a single soul dares to assume.  
"Colonel Mustang," she says it with a slight nod, her hands clasp at the small of her back. He straightens out his coat.  
"Lieutenant Hawkeye," he swerves intentionally, her shoulder touches his arm and he looks down at her, a flash of something in her eyes. He knows she could have dodged, has the skill to. She grimaces, he smirks, letting a small laugh escapes his mouth. He lets her fall back, and in a way he knows this is her way of pushing him away, but why he hasn't quite thought about; hasn't allowed himself the space in his crowded mind for why she would have to. He does think, however, that if he was a different man, or maybe she a different woman, he could think of her the way he claims he doesn't.  
He imagines her hand in his, him with a pipe in his mouth, her with a basket on her arm, loaded with fresh produce and baked goods. She is a housewife in this vision he has, loyal to her husband and bathed in jewels and luxuries he knows she hates. He chuckles to himself and asks her what they'll have for dinner, and she takes his hand a bit tighter and replies they will have whatever he wishes. Her amber-red eyes gleam with love and adoration for this alternate onyx haired man. They stop, she looks up at him and he leans down before he kiss-  
"Sir?" She speeds up. He shakes out his hands and wonders why he does this to himself.  
"Did you hear anything I just said?" He looks down at her and stops on his brisk walk, she stops seconds after him, her reflexes spotless.  
"You said we'll eat whatever I would like." And he continues on his brisk walk, quicker than usual, leaving her behind him. The sun rises, it's colors pink and yellow and blue, mixing to create a sky he's familiar with. He smiles, knowing the sun would rise like this in his alternate world.


	6. Unbreakable

I gave in T_T

Sometimes it scares her that she is so willing to do anything and everything for him. She is antsy, her feet tapping without her realization; these days she feels more and more unsympathetic. Like she has no feelings for anyone or anything. And she no longer feels like a woman. But then again she can never remember feeling like a woman. Just a girl waiting to be one, but got the title of soldier before she could develop the hand of a lady. She is pulled back into work.  
Pen scratches and the discomfort of having eyes travel down her neck causes her I squirm before she looks to the window for some relief. From her place at her newest desk she can see all of Central; she can see her old office. Where he probably sits and lets the paperwork pile up on his desk like she does now.  
Somehow she is taken by the idea that maybe he is thinking of her, maybe he is wishing for her presence. She smiles at the thought knowing this cannot be true. Because she is only a soldier, unbreakable and thick as steel. Still, she cannot keep her mind from straying to him, wondering if he has gotten enough sleep, or if by some off chance he's gotten too much sleep. Has he eaten? She closes her eyes.  
The next thought comes without her approval._ Is his new lieutenant a beauty?_ Her mind screams at her. She is not one for petty jealousy. She decides to let it go. That is not the woman she wants to be.  
"Lieutenant Hawkeye." Her jaw clenches and she tastes blood where she bites her tongue. Her captor bides her attention and she feels her face tighten in a pleasant smile that wants nothing but to flee.  
"Sir?" She stands and salutes.  
"Be a dear and run this down to Colonel Mustang would you?" There is a quiet hostility in the way he speaks. A way that if unknown is taken as a gentle voice. This voice scares her.  
"At your command." An envelope is passed to her and she is tempted to pick at the seal, but she won't because she no longer has the authority to act as she would like. Waved away she all but stops herself from running down the corridors and through the grand dinning hall.  
He is feet away from her and yet she feels an indescribable barrier that stands between him and her.  
She pushes open the familiar door and almost sobs when her eyes make contact with his. He is surprised and behind those black holes for eyes she sees the same hunger she feels and he stands, his hands gloved and clenched. The door closes behind her and she lets her hand rest on the handle for a moment to keep her knees strong.  
"Hawkeye," he breaths and this is her cue to move forward a little faster than she normally would. He notices and moves to meet her in case she's hurt. How can she not believe he's been thinking of her? She swallows.  
"Papers from the Führer." He shivers and she lets her fingers catch his gloved hands.  
"Damn that bastard," She hears him mutter before he slips the white covers off his hands before he touches the small cut on her cheek.  
"Damn, Bradley to hell." And she wants to launch herself into him and feel the warmth of the flames inside of him, wants to feel the safety that his presence allows. She is soothed with a touch to the shoulder that lingers and becomes tender as he lets his bare skin touch the skin of her wrist.  
Her eyes close again and her fear somehow melts. She is her again.  
"Damn him." She agrees.


	7. Forgetting

Last one for the day!

He dislikes the way she watches him. Watches the world with eyes that shine like diamonds cut from atoned sins. Dislikes the way she knows who he is, not who he pretends to be. And he tries to forget. At times he wishes he could pretend they weren't so tied together. But then again he wouldn't take back her. He never would take her back. He shifts in his chair, his leg falls asleep and it makes him uncomfortable.  
She is his history. If a person was looking with the right intent he was sure they would be able to pick him apart through her carmine- sometimes amber- eyes. Those eyes sometime scare him, scare him so deeply he can't even think. She sighs.  
He rubs his hands raw, and when they are agitated and pink he pulls at the skin, feeling somewhat accomplished when he draws blood. He shakes them out, the sting of dryness finally hits him and he regrets messing with them. She notices. He is sure not to make eye contact in fear of seeing her scrutinizing looks. He's afraid of the disappointment that might lie behind those precious eyes. He clears his throat, the pressure from her eyes intensifies and he looks at her.  
He tries to forget the fact that she's a woman. It's something he's never been able to erase. Like the way her body looks under her greatcoat, or the way she fiddles with her hair. And God forbid the way her turtleneck clung to her body. He finds himself wondering if her body is still soft like it was when he was sixteen. His face falters now. He scolds himself by pinching his hand. He knows her body is not soft. She is scared and bruised and burnt. It is the consequence of being in war, of believing in him. She looks at him, catching him staring. A smirk is readjusted on his face and she tries to hide the fact that she's rolling her eyes.  
They are beautiful- her eyes. Wise and sometimes hard from many years of unforgiving life. He lets her silently question him, before she goes back to her work. The phone rings and she talks in a hushed voice that makes him imagine her in the night, whispering sweet nothing's, lying beside him. He taps on his chest in an attempt to calm his frantic heartbeat. He does not succeed.  
"Colonel, request to aid in combat," she briefs him, her voice low as she whispers into his ear so as to not disrupt their men. He nods and she ends the conversation as he shrugs on his greatcoat. She pulls his gloves from the desk, takes his hand in hers and examines it for a moment before sliding the fabric over his irritations. She is gentle in her work as she places the next one carefully over his fingers. She hesitates for a second before letting her hand stay in his before she lets go and steps away.  
"Good luck..."she looks him in the eyes,"sir." He chuckles, the only thing he can do to keep his mind straight.  
"With you at my back, always."


End file.
